


a man can be kind

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [9]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hockey Fights, M/M, Typical Hockey Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: fighty kent angst hours
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 8
Kudos: 119





	a man can be kind

**Author's Note:**

> title from kelly clarkson

"Oh my god just shut the fuck up already," someone on Pittsburgh's bench shouts at him. 

Kent just smirks and winks at them as he skates off for a line change. 

He hears someone call him a bitch as he sits down. And he smirks. 

Kent has not scored a goal in a month. 14 games to be specific. That's 840 minutes, 877:34 if you count the ones that went to overtime and the amount of time they've played this game, and Kent does. It's been six games since a primary assist, three games since a secondary assist and for the first time since peewee, he has more Penalties in a month than points. 

He jumps over the boards. He starts his shifts with a burst of energy. Muscle memory at this point, maybe a little bit of hope left over from when he didn’t suck. He can see the play, he can see the puck. He knows that part of hockey is accepting that sometimes the bounces don't go your way. Puck luck is fickle and Kent doesn't always have it. But it's been so long now that Kent's starting to think that this is a sign from the universe. That he's no longer Kent Parson, league leading goal scorer. 

He watched his name fall off the leaderboards and listened to the speculation. The worst part is he's not even hurt, as seems to be the prevailing theory among the Aces beat reporters. He's just in a slump. A bad one.

"Nice tape job Dicky, you know you don't have to pay for your own tape anymore!" Kent shouts across the ice at one of the Pens, his tape job is pretty sparse, it's the first thing Kent catches on to chirp about.

He scores goals, that's what he gives his team, and now, in the absence of that, he figures he can at least be really fucking annoying. 

"We  _ have  _ to stop meeting like this," Kent chirps. Now he has one of the Pens pressed against the boards. There's a shit eating grin on his face as he kicks the puck out to Swoops. 

He can act confident even if he isn't, he has to. He takes the pass from The Pen shoves him but Kent circles behind the net, out working him on his edges. He finds himself open for a pass and Swoops puts the puck right on his stick and Kent's open in the slot and he can feel the goal in him. He can hear the goal song, can feel his teammates knuckles as he skates down the bench and cellies hard. He's going to do it, he snaps a wrist shot… and it's deflected, the Pens goalie scrambles to smother it and Kent's shoulders sag a little deeper as the referees blow their whistles to stop the play. 

Kent returns to the bench. His coach pats him on the back of the helmet. 

"Atta be boys, pucks on net, they'll go in eventually. You're playing the game right," Kent knows the mini motivational speech is just for him. 

God sometimes he just wants someone to tell him what he already knows. He's fucking it up. He doesn't understand how they can all lie to him so easily. 

Kent stands outside the faceoff circle while Swoops takes the faceoff on their next shit.

"Nice teeth, Dicky," Kent comments. The big guy that Kent had been battling at the boards with is right next to him, "You wanna play dentist later?" Kent asks. 

"The fuck are you on Parson?" Alex Dickson, the biggest guy on the other team grumbles at him. 

The puck drops and Kent skates with the play. He makes sure to catch Dicky's shinpads with his stick, not enough to draw a penalty but just enough to get under his skin. 

One of the Pens is offside, they lineup for another faceoff.

"Hey Parson!" He hears Dicky's voice calling out to him, "You trying to score, or what?" 

Kent grits his teeth, "Figured I'd take it easy on you," Kent sticks his lip out in a fake pout. 

Swoops passes to Kent, predictably. Kent tries to dance around the defenders but he ends up getting double teamed, he searches for a passing lane, gets rid of the puck and half a second later he's being crushed. The force of Dicky's hit smashes him against the board The wind's knocked out of him and he feels his shoulder pop. And he relishes in it as he falls to his knees. Maybe he drew a penalty, maybe they can get a power play, he's always been good on the power play. 

"Come on!" he hears his coach yell. 

The refs haven't stopped the play or called a penalty. Kent spits onto the ice and grimaces. 

"That's our leading scorer out there!" his coach yells. 

Kent winces even harder than when he'd been hit. 

"Is he though? I had him confused for a make a wish kid!" Dicky yells. 

Scraps shakes his head, looks like he wants to say something but the play's in progress so he won't. What could Scraps say? At least Dicky's telling the truth. 

So Kent gets up and he rejoins the play even though his coach is signaling him to come back to the bench. Swoops has the puck at the hash marks so Kent positions himself in front of the net angling for a deflection. Dicky's covering him, so Kent shoves and Dicky shoves back. And they keep shoving. Swoops ends up passing to the point where the d-man rips a slap shot that hits the net and goes out of play. 

"Acting like a real rat tonight, huh, Parson?" Dicky asks. 

Knew you'd be in town," Kent puts on his cockiest mask. 

Dicky elbows him, Kent shoves him back. He slashes his gloves when he knows the referees aren’t looking. They hear the tweeting of the whistle, Kent feels the hand of a referee pulling him away. Dicky grins in the slightly unhinged way that let’s Kent know he’s thinking about putting his fist to Kent’s face. Now there’s an idea. 

Kent skates back to the bench. 

“Keep it clean,” Is all the coach says to Kent. 

_ Tell me to score a fucking goal,  _ Kent thinks to himself, he hasn’t uclenched his jaw in 7 games. 

_ Yes _ , Kent thinks to himself, Swoops gets tripped, the refs give the Aces a power play. Kent leaps over the boards. If there’s ever going to be a time to score, it’s now. His stick feels heavy in his hands, hands feel heavy in his gloves. He’s done this before, lead the league in power play goals last season, what the fuck is his problem. 

There’s a faceoff in the offensive end. Swoops looks back at Kent, gives him a reassuring nod. Kent doesn’t want it. 

Swoops tangles with the Pens’ centre but manages to get the puck to the Aces left winger. They set up, Kent’s standing near the hash marks as Carlsson evades the Pens’ penalty killers behind the net. Kent bangs his stick insistently for a pass, he has an open shooting lane, goalie’s looking at him but Kent  _ knows  _ he can slide it in his five-hole, can see it happening in his head. Carly nods, he passes to Kent, avoids a hit from one of the penalty killers. And the puck goes past Kent. 

“Shit!” Kent yells loud enough that it’s probably on the broadcast. 

So now he’s missing passes? Fucking embarassing. He takes off down the ice, one of the penalty killers for the Pens whipped past him, got the puck on his stick for a breakaway. He  _ can’t  _ score shorthanded, he can’t. Kent’s desperate to stop him, he feels the burn in his legs, stretches his stick in front of him. The blade of his stick catches the Pen around his front and Kent watches as he tumbles to the ice. The whistle blows and Kent groans realizing what he’s done. 

Dicky smirks as he skates past Kent. Kent slashes him in the back of the skates. Dicky growls. Kent smirks.

It’s a penalty shot. Hooking. Kent wants their goalie, Breaker, to scream at him or even give him a dirty look, something instead of just frowning and looking away.

Kent slams his stick against the bench as he sits down next to his team. He doesn’t watch, only hears the Pens goal horn blow and the fans around them erupt into cheers. 

“Hey Parse! Way to go fucking moron!” Dicky’s voice bellows from the other bench. 

“Fuck off!” Carly shouts back. 

It’s a cold day in hell when Carlsson’s defending him. 

“He’s fucking right,” Kent mumbles to himself. He is a fucking moron. 

He hears his coach sigh behind him. The Aces are down 1-0 and Kent thinks this is the worst first period he’s ever had, including the one in minors where he broke his collarbone. 

Kent grits his teeth. He wants to scream at his coach.  _ Bench me, scream at me, call me a loser, send me down the AHL. Something.  _

“We’ll get you a goal, Parse,” Swoops says on their next shift. 

Kent grits his teeth. He doesn’t want a charity goal, he wants to earn it back for himself.

“Fuck,” Dicky chirps, “Can’t believe they’re still letting you play.”

Neither can Kent. He just shakes his head. Cocky grin. He once read an article about how it’s impossible to “crush Kent Parson’s spirit,” because he always looks cocky on the ice. Kent wonders if anyone knows it’s all fake.

“Right back at you, grandpa,” Kent chirps. 

Dicky receives a pass. Kent’s not close enough to throw a hit, so he slashes at his wrist with his stick. It doesn’t get called. Dickson growls at him. Kent smirks. Dickson elbows him, that doesn’t get called either since it just looks like a puck battle. Dicky throws a massive hit, open ice against one of the rookies, separating him clean from the puck. The rookie gets up, it was a legal hit. But Kent grabs the back of Dicky’s jersey anyway. He’s looking for the fight. The officials haven’t even stopped the play yet but Kent doesn’t care at this point, it’s not like he was going to score a goal.

“That was dirty!” Kent shouts. 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, bitch,” Dicky spits. 

Kent shoves him, Dicky shoves back

“You wanna go?” Dicky says. 

Kent tosses his gloves off in answer.  _ Finally  _

“What the fuck!” he can hear Breaker shouting. 

Kent can fight, he’s done it before, his first couple years in the league he’d wanted to fight everyone, succeeded about half the time while also scoring at a record setting pace, determined to prove something. They circle on the ice, fists up. Dicky lunges and Kent ducks the first punch. 

He’s going to prove something again, this guy has a good four inches on him, and he’s basically made of muscle and bad intentions. 

He can feel the eyes on him. For once they’re going to watch him do  _ something.  _ Finally, there’s an event after all the buildup. He looks up at the scoreboard, there’s about a minute left in the first period, what a way to end this. 

“Fucking rat,” Dicky growls. 

Kent grabs onto Dicky’s jersey, throws a punch, it hits him in the jaw. Dicky shakes his head, swings. Kent feels the pain radiate out from his shoulder where the punch landed. They tangle, Dicky’s jersey slides up over his head and Kent throws another punch while he’s distracted. His heart’s racing and he feels like he can do anything, he can feel the pain, but he’s past caring about it. Dicky catches him in the face with his elbow. Kent tastes blood. 

DIcky starts to let go, the referees are trying to come in and separate them but Kent throws another punch desperate for the adrenaline and Dicky growls.The punches come raining down. His fighting instincts come back to him easily, he blocks a punch and throws another. Dicky shoves him to the ground but Kent pulls him with him. Dicky lands one more punch, right on the mouth. The whistles are blowing and he thinks he sees flecks of blood on the ice under his nose. Dicky spits, not on him because then the entire Aces bench would kill him for that kind of move, but near enough that Kent feels it. 

The Aces clap their sticks against the bench. They haven’t applauded him for actually doing something in over a month, it feels good. 

He skates around, spits a little bit of blood and glances up at the camera.

Kent doesn’t even bother going back to the bench, he’s getting ejected from the game, he trudges down the tunnel, leaving his equipment on the ice. He raises his hand to his lip, his fingers feel wet, when he looks down there’s blood. He feels like a psychopath for smiling at that. It was a fight, hockey players fight. He’s a hockey player. 

Whiskey stands in his hotel room near Ohio state. He hasn’t even had time to undo his dress shirt past the first button. Kent’s getting beaten up. There’s blood on the ice trickling from Kent’s mouth. And he’s still swinging. Whiskey’s fists clench immediately, like there’s anything he can do to defend him. The fight feels longer than it probably is, Whiskey feels every punch like it’s landing on him and not Kent. And when Kent gets up, he’s grinning, shaking his head but grinning, looking directly up at the camera, cocky expression, something wild in his eyes. And he looks… good. His hair’s drenched with sweat, curls falling over his eyes, burning with adrenaline, chest heaving, staring the guy he fought down. The intensity is  _ almost  _ attractive, but Whiskey remembers the blood, the soundKent’s body made when he hit the ice. 

Whiskey’s never been in a fight, never had to be and it’s not really something that happens a lot in college hockey anyway. He doesn’t understand the appeal and he  _ definitely  _ doesn’t like his boyfriend doing it. 

The announcers talk and Whiskey tunes in. 

“Well Parson and Dickson have been at each other since the puck dropped, it was only a matter of time before the gloves came off.”

“We haven’t seen Parson fight in nearly three years,” the other announcer continues, “Do we think Dickson was just getting under his skin, or are we seeing a return of the Kent Parson we knew before? Less disciplined.”

“Well you know me, I’m always in favour of a little more physical hockey.”

Whiskey clenches his jaw. He most certainly is not. They’re cleaning up Kent’s blood on the ice. 

On a baseline level, Whiskey knows that Kent can fight, that he used to do it a lot. But Whiskey’s never  _ seen  _ it, and certainly not since they’ve been together. And he hates it, he hates it with every fibre of his being. Kent’s not that kind of player, he shouldn’t have to be. And now Whiskey’s angry, because Kent started this fight, because he was looking for it. The cocky grin as he looks up at the camera.

The one thing being in an incredibly long distance relationship has taught him, an hour and a half isn’t that far of a drive.

___

“Fuck Parser that was one hell of a fight,” Scraps calls from down the hallway, Kent’s grinning, tooth missing, and eye black, but grinning nonetheless. 

“Man fuck Pittsburgh,” Carlsson yells. 

The team cheers, whoops as they find their room assignments. A perk of the Aces extended concussion protocol, Kent gets his own room tonight. 

They won after Kent got ejected, fighting before the whistle is a huge penalty and he’s lucky Dicky was willing to go or he’d be facing a fine. He grins though, god he can’t stop grinning. Four goals after Kent left the ice, he heard the whooping from the locker room, watched the video feed. Felt like he finally did something useful. It was worth it, the black eye, the bruised knuckles, he’ll do it again. It’s hockey, if you can’t score a goal you can start a fight. You have to help your team.

Kent opens the door still grinning. His shoulder’s starting to feel stiff from where he hit the ice, but it’s fine, he’s fine. He won. 

He can still taste the blood where his lip split. He’d do it again.

He checks his phone. Phone in one hand, bucket of ice in the other. He has a voicemail from Whiskey, he starts listening to it.

“Call me back, what the fuck was that?”

The lights are already on in his room. He pushes the door open. 

Whiskey’s leaning against the dresser, he looks up from his phone. Whiskey. 

Kent pauses as the door swings closed behind him. His eyes go wide, well his left one does, his right one’s pretty swollen. 

Whiskey’s arms are crossed. 

“So what was that?” Whiskey asks, gesturing at his phone. 

“A fight,” Kent shrugs, not too hard, his shoulder’s starting to kill. He sets the ice down on the dresser, “It’s not a big deal,” Kent says, “S’hockey?” 

Whiskey shakes his head, “You didn’t need to do that,” he says. 

“I did. And after I did they scored, so it worked out.”

“You couldn’t have figured out some other way to get your team riled up?” Whiskey asks, “Instead of… being so  _ reckless _ ?” 

“Babe,” Kent says, “I’m fine, it’s fine. Fights happen.”

“You’re so casual about it!” Whiskey clenches his jaw, “You’re missing a fucking tooth!” he hisses. 

Kent smiles, “I think it makes me look tough,” he goes for the joke. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “It was dangerous, that guy was like half a foot taller than you.”

“So?” Kent says, finally getting defensive, “You think I can’t take him?”

“You didn’t  _ have  _ to! I don’t get it!” Whiskey’s voice rises. 

“You don’t need to get it!” Kent’s voice rises to match Whiskey’s, “It was just a fight!”

“You don’t have to do it! You score goals, you’re not a fighter, you’re going to get hurt! I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m sure as hell not scoring goals right now,” Kent gives Whiskey a pointed look, “So I might as well do something. Give them something to talk about. That's not the fact that I haven’t scored in 15 games.”

“You’ll score again,” Whiskey throws his hands up, exasperated, “Fighting is dumb I don’t get it,” Whiskey says. 

“And I said you don’t have to get it!” Kent knows they’re arguing in circles, “I have to do  _ something. _ ”

“The way you were egging that guy on was... just constantly at each other, Jesus,” Whiskey runs a hand through his hair, “It’s like you were trying to get punched,” he says. 

Kent closes his mouth, clenches his jaw, shakes his head slightly. 

“Oh my god,” Whiskey says, “You  _ were  _ trying to get punched. 

Kent doesn’t say anything, but he knows it’s true, he was itching for the feeling of a fight. Whiskey’s voice drops instantly, his anger melts away into concern and Kent’s not sure which expression he hates more. Whiskey’s eyes are wide, his shoulders open up as he takes a step forward, “Why?” 

Kent doesn’t want his compassion,he doesn’t want his pity, so he stays guarded.

“Maybe I deserved it, okay?” Kent snaps, he turns away from Whiskey. He hadn’t thought that consciously yet. 

“Maybe if I can’t score goals, I can at least bleed for them, I can get them riled up,” he’s shouting, and he doesn’t feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, “And you know, at least when that guy was beating the shit out of me, he was telling the truth. Everyone’s walking on eggshells around me, telling me it’s gonna be fine, but it’s not fucking fine! I’m a goal scorer and I’m not scoring goals? So yeah, I’ll start a fight,” Kent shrugs helplessly, he feels a tear on his cheek, he moves quickly to wipe it away, “he was right that I gave them a penalty shot and he was right that I fucked it up and that I don’t deserve my ice time, at least he’s honest,” he swats another tear off of his cheek, clenches his teeth and whispers, “If I’m not good, maybe I deserve to get punched,” he chokes out, looking down at the floor, he can’t stand to look at Whiskey looking at him right now. 

“Kent,” Whiskey’s voice comes out just as choked as his own. Kent still doesn’t look up, “Look at me?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent looks up slowly, tentatively. Whiskey looks the saddest Kent has ever seen him look, concern in his eyes, something else Kent can’t place. He sees a single tear spill out of Whiskey’s eyes and roll down his face and his lip trembles. Kent can’t stop the tears from flooding down over his cheeks. He thinks about how awful he must look. Bruised, dried blood on his swollen lip, and now tears streaking down his face. Whiskey looks at him anyway, steps forward and pulls Kent into a hug. Kent just sinks into it, lets his tears soak Whiskey’s shoulder. He trembles, slightly, the adrenaline crash finally coming for him, and he feels tired and sore and stiff but Whiskey holds him anyway. He smooths Kent’s hair. Whiskey doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” Kent fumbles for better words.

“It’s okay,” Whiskey says, “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he takes a step back. He touches Kent’s cheek, Kent winces, the black eye’s tender, “Mostly okay,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m useless,” Kent mutters. 

He feels Whiskey shake his head, but Kent keeps nodding. 

Whiskey takes Kent’s hand in his. One of Kent’s knuckles split open, he’s bruised his entire hand. Whiskey looks at it and sighs. He pulls Kent over to the bed, they sit down together on the end, and Whiskey puts his arm around Kent, pulling him as close as he can be without being on his lap. 

Kent rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. His eyes are heavy but he doesn’t close them. 

“I just feel like dead weight,” Kent says, “Those are my guys, those are my brothers and I’m not doing anything to help, I’m a captain who can’t score, who can’t lead by example. At least I could bleed for them.”

“Never,” Whiskey leans over to kiss the top of Kent’s head.

“I just needed to do something, I needed to get on the scoresheet even if it was in the penalty column and I needed to be able to see my name trend on twitter for something other than sucking at hockey.”

“You don’t suck at hockey,” Whiskey says, it comes out reflexively. 

“I keep losing, even when the team wins, I lose, and it’s because I’m useless and nobody’s telling me what I’m doing wrong.”

Whiskey removes his arm, he pulls his legs up onto the bed and crosses his legs, he looks at Kent, a serious look in his eyes. 

“Okay, you want to know what you're doing wrong?” Whiskey asks. 

“No one’s telling me,” Kent mumbles. 

“You’re over-correcting,” Whiskey says immediately. 

“What?” Kent asks. 

“Everyone has slumps, right?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods, “But 15 games? That’s too long, especially for you,” Whiskey says, “At first it was just bad luck, bounces going the wrong way, but now? Now you’re thinking it too hard, you’re not trusting your reflexes, you’re trying so hard to anticipate the next play that you’re not thinking about the one going on, trying so hard to be in position that you’re out of it. You’re overcorrecting for whatever you think is wrong with you. It’s in your head. You  _ have  _ to trust your muscle memory, trust your body.”

Whiskey knows all about over-correcting, of course. The over-training, the extra skating, Kent knows all Whiskey’s punishments for himself when he’s not performing well enough. He would be the guy to recognize it in Kent. 

Kent pulls his legs up onto the bed. And looks at Whiskey, just looks at him, wants to look at him for as long as he can. Whiskey’s the first person who’s acknowledged the slump, better than that, the only person who’s told him exactly what he thinks is wrong and how he can fix it. So Kent leans forward and kisses him. He doesn’t care that his lip is swollen, and neither does Whiskey apparently, because his hands cup Kent’s face and he lets himself be kissed. 

“I know you can fight,” Whiskey murmurs, “I know you used to way more often, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Kent nods, “It was… a lot when I got to Vegas. I just… it feels  _ good,  _ the energy, it’s like nothing else and I just needed that energy. I broke my nose the year we won the cup and I didn’t even feel it, I just felt invincible.”

“Goon,” Whiskey teases. 

Kent smiles-ow, his lips stings, he tastes blood. He wipes it away with his sleeve. 

“Don’t you fucking dare go starting fights because I said this, but you make a pretty hot goon,” Whiskey says. 

Kent grins, cocky and shit-eating, and Whiskey punches him in the shoulder, deliberately the one that’s not bruised. 

“Please tell me you’re getting your tooth fixed though,” Whiskey says. 

And Kent laughs and he falls forward, his head landing on Whiskey’s lap, smiling. Whiskey’s hands card through Kent’s hair, dull nails scratching against his scalp. He can feel himself about to fall asleep. 

“I’m never going to tell you how to play hockey,” Whiskey says, “And I  _ know  _ that you can get hurt and I know that sometimes you can’t avoid a fight with the way you play,” Whiskey says, “But you don’t have to throw yourself at it all the time, okay? You matter to your team.”

Kent nods. 

“I promise,” Kent says. 

“You’re too pretty to always have a black eye,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nuzzles against Whiskey’s thigh, “You think I’m pretty?” He teases. 

“You’re always pretty,” Whiskey’s petting him now, hand gently holding his face. 

Fighting feels pretty good, but this might feel better, it’s got the edge. 

Whiskey gets up after a minute. He wraps some of the ice in a towel and hands it to Kent. 

“Put some ice on your eye,” he says.

Kent nods and takes the towel, too tired to do much protesting. 

“Weren’t you at Ohio State tonight?” Kent asks. 

“Yep,” Whiskey says, “No questions, I’m here, that’s what matters. Now take off your shirt so I can yell at you for getting yourself hurt some more,” Whiskey jokes. 

Kent unbuttons his shirt, leaves it open. The fist sized bruise on his shoulder is a deep purple. Whiskey sighs. 

“You got some good punches in at least,” he shrugs. 

Kent shrugs his shirt off, strips down to his boxers and takes his spot on the left side of the bed.

“Are you staying?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods, “As long as you’ll get up at bullshit-o-clock with me so I can get back to Ohio and catch the bus.”

“I can’t believe you crossed state lines to come call me a dumbass,” Kent says. 

“It was just too dumb for me to ignore.” Whiskey shrugs off his own shirt, joins Kent in bed. 

They curl up together under the hotel sheets. Whiskey has his arm protectively draped over Kent’s torso, like he’s ready to defend him from another fight if he has to. Kent presses his nose to Whiskey’s. 

“Show me where you broke your nose,” Whiskey asks. 

Kent takes Whiskey’s hand in his, places it on top of a little bump on the bridge of his nose. Not all that noticeable from the right angle, but he can tell it’s there. Whiskey runs his thumb over it and nods. 

“You’ve never been in a fight, have you?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “I’ve never been that guy. I understand it though. I promise, I do,”

Kent nods, “I know.”

“Do you really feel like you deserve to get punched?”

Kent considers saying no so that he doesn’t have to hear Whiskey’s voice break, but he also won’t lie. 

Kent nods. 

Whiskey buries his head in Kent’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Kent says. 

“Don’t apologize,” Whiskey says quickly, looking back up “If you feel like that, you feel like that, okay? Don’t apologize for the way you feel.”

“I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Me either,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s a problem,” Kent acknowledges, “I know I need to work on finding self-worth outside of hockey, but it’s hard,” Kent borrows his therapist’s favourite expression. 

Whiskey nods, “I think you’re the most valuable thing in the world no matter what,” Whiskey says. 

“Cheesy,” Kent mumbles. 

“Don’t care,” Whiskey mumbles back, “It’s true. To me, you are.”

“I’m not me if I’m not scoring goals,” Kent says, it’s been weighing on him forever, “We started talking when the Aces were the first in the standings and I had more goals than anyone else in the league and I wasn’t such a loser.”

Whiskey sighs, “I wasn’t checking the standings when we started going out,” Whiskey says, “Hockey has nothing to do with how much I love you.”

Every relationship Kent’s had since he was 14 has been tied to hockey somehow. Every friendship, every mentor, every boyfriend. All of them have been in his life because of hockey. And he just assumed that Whiskey was with him for the same reasons. He tied Whiskey’s love and affection to hockey out of habit. But in a single sentence, Whiskey’s cut that tie and Kent feels relieved and terrified in the same breath. 

“I’m going to keep loving you if you never score another goal again,” Whiskey says. 

Kent takes a deep shaky breath. 

“Uncharted territory for me, babe,” he says, a small laugh.

“I know,” Whiskey presses their faces together, “I’ll prove it’s true.” And Kent thinks maybe he can believe it as Whiskey kisses him on his swollen lip. He adjusts his ice pack, leans against the headboard. Whiskey wraps both arms and legs around Kent’s body and hums against his chest. Whiskey’s knuckles graze against Kent’s. He remembers the last time he’d been in a fight. Nearly two seasons ago, he’d gotten his knuckles bruised and his nose bloodied, and he’d gone home alone. Looked in his mirror and curled up on the couch, alone except for Kit sitting in his lap purring gently,. The adrenaline of the fight is great, but when it leaves, Kent knows how empty it feels, how tired and how sore. 

He's tired and he's sore. But he's not alone

**Author's Note:**

> the art that inspired this!!!! 
> 
> https://fanartshmanart.tumblr.com/post/625264778955341824/fanartshmanart-wanted-to-practice-a-different
> 
> check out @fanartshmanart on tumblr, best kent art!!!


End file.
